


An Interchangeable Man

by OzQueen



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Clones, Confusion, Fear, Gen, Implied Violence, Imprisonment, Manipulation, Memory Loss, Rescue, Touch-Starved, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-09
Updated: 2017-11-09
Packaged: 2019-01-21 07:19:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12452403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OzQueen/pseuds/OzQueen
Summary: Only one Shiro will get to go home.





	An Interchangeable Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lunarium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunarium/gifts).



> I was *so excited* to get this pairing as my assignment! Lunarium, your letter contained some amazing thoughts and prompts, and I hope I've done some of your likes/loves justice here.
> 
> There are no spoilers for S4 here so far as I can tell. (I wrote this fic prior to viewing S4). This story takes place at the end of S2/during S3, ie: when Shiro disappears from inside the Black Lion.

 

* * *

There is a familiar tang in Shiro's mouth — something medical and ancient; something synthetic and iron. He cracks his eyes and a sliver of light from above gleams through his lashes.

He can hear the quiet tick-tick-tick of medical equipment. He can hear his own heartbeat. He can hear the movements of others around him. He can hear the rattle of something metallic being set down on a tray.

He can hear a low voice mutter with annoyance.

"The subject is awake."

* * *

Shiro wakes on the floor of a Galra cell, blood prickling in his numb limbs.

He can still feel the warm pressure of the bands around his head and his chest, holding him down. He can still hear that hiss-whisper of Quintessence in his ears, and smell everything that comes with it — the smell of age; ancient sunlight and dust pulled through the darkness of the universe.

For a moment, a single, panicked thought rises starkly in his mind: _What have they done to me?_

He sits up slowly, and thinks he can feel the ship tilting beneath him, drifting through space with nothing to anchor it. For a moment he thinks there is something wrong with the gravity — he grabs for something to hold onto, but the room is empty and his fingers slide against the floor. He retches, but nothing comes up.

The last thing he remembers is the Black Lion… No, the last thing he remembers is the lab, the straps around his head, the Quintessence…

He wants to slam his fist against the wall with the unfairness of it. Kick at the door, yell for the guards. Demand answers. Demand his freedom.

Again.

He drags himself to the corner, exhausted. The room seems to tip and sway, though he's certain it's all in his head. He can't seem to right himself; can't seem to find his place. He curls into the corner and tries to make himself small and heavy. He buries his face into the space of his folded arms, braced against his knees, waiting for the nausea to pass.

A slide-show projection of memories ticks through his mind slowly. Keith, Lance, Hunk, Pidge, Allura, Coran… Voltron.

He dares to raise his head. He looks around his cell and remembers how he felt last time he was here.

"It's different this time," he whispers, and his voice is hoarse, like he's not spoken in years and years. "Just hang tight and wait for rescue. You know they're coming."

He closes his eyes and lets the darkness settle behind his eyelids, darker, darker, darker. "They're coming," he says to himself again. "They'll find you."

The universe has never felt so vast and empty.

* * *

The shakiness in his limbs takes a long time to wear off. He leans against the wall of his cell, trying to conserve his energy, thinking through his options.

When the Galra come for him, should he fight them off? Should he try to kill the sentry guards and make a run for the escape pods? Should he wait, and try to learn exactly how much damage Voltron did to the Galra Empire?

He wonders if Zarkon is dead.

He can't remember exactly how he got from the Black Lion to here, and worried thoughts start itching at the inside of his mind — _Was Voltron destroyed; is everyone okay; how did I get here; why haven't they killed me_ _…_

He remembers the lab, and the lights, and the electric bands holding him down, and he shivers again.

_The subject is awake._

He flexes the hand of his Galra arm; touches the tip of each finger to his thumb, _one-two-three-four_.

The silence eats at him. It's almost as though it has a noise of its own, ebbing over him, throbbing in his chest like an old wound. There are no footsteps pacing the corridors. There is nothing to help him measure time passing.

* * *

Shiro wakes on the floor of a Galra cell, blood prickling in his numb limbs.

He gasps and rolls onto his back, fingers clutching at the smooth floor. Déjà vu crashes over him like a wave — he _knows_ he just woke up, crumpled in the same position. He _knows_ he curled himself into the corner.

 _Or was it a dream?_ A worried little voice speaks up, and he retches and curls up into a ball, trying to steady himself.

* * *

When the sentries come for him, he contemplates fighting his way out. There are only four of them; he could do it. He could slice them all into pieces. He knows the sounds their limbs will make when they hit the floor.

But they stand back, waiting for him to exit the cell on his own. His legs tremble beneath him and he knows he has to wait if he wants to fight his way out. Now is not the right time for an escape.

Besides, the Paladins will be looking for him. The Paladins will be coming for him.

He lets himself get guided away by the guards. He keeps his head down but he maps every turn, every door, every corridor in his mind, repeating it back to himself like a bizarre game of Simon.

_Left right left straight straight straight right left_

He doesn't recognize the room, but he recognizes the creature within it. He can see her smile glinting beneath the shadow of her hood, and the bone-white threads of her hair.

The witch.

A name springs from nowhere, a burning memory from somewhere deep, and he can't remember how it got there:  _Haggar._

"My Champion," she says, and her voice drips with a certain fondness that sends ice down Shiro's spine.

The sentries leave them alone, and Shiro foolishly wishes he could call them back. The voice at the back of his head is scornful. _For protection? Pull yourself together._

"You should be on your knees," she says. Her voice is like gravel. "I am the only reason you continue to live."

"What happened to the Black Lion?" Shiro doesn't think she'll tell him, but he can't stop himself from asking anyway. "What happened to Zarkon?"

There is the glint of a yellow eye, narrowed in his direction. "Lord Zarkon lives."

 _Which means he has the Black Lion, which means_ _…_ Shiro fights hard to keep himself from showing any sign of defeat. He glares back at the witch. "Your empire is falling apart."

She laughs. "My empire is just beginning."

Her eyes glint at him again, and Shiro's stomach twists.

Déjà vu.

* * *

Shiro wakes on the floor of a Galra cell, blood prickling in his numb limbs.

He breathes out slowly, watching his breath fog against the smooth floor.

He forces himself to remember, because he _knows._ He knows he's sleeping and waking and sleeping and waking. He knows there are stretches of time being wiped away.

The projector in his mind is back, ticking through slides, each one a memory.

_The Black Lion. The glowing bands around his wrists, the lab table, the Quintessence. Left right left straight straight straight right left. Haggar._

He sits up. He listens for the footsteps.

Eventually they come.

* * *

"How many times have we had this conversation?"

The witch chuckles. "Are you remembering, Champion?"

"What have you done to me?" He's angry. He knows they've poked around inside his brain before — his arm is proof enough; his nightmares are proof enough. But how many times since losing the Black Lion has he been laid out on that table?

How much time has truly passed?

A sour taste floods his mouth, but he swallows it back.

"You are stronger than they give you credit for," she whispers. She never comes any closer, and yet he feels like he's seeing more and more of her. Her fingers twitch at the ends of her sleeves, and he can see her nostrils flaring.

She shows him her pointed teeth — smiling at him — before she turns her back. "You are the one true Champion."

* * *

Shiro can hear the crowd before he reaches the arena. He knows what's coming. He should have expected it, but he's been too consumed by trying to figure out how many times he's woken on the floor of his cell.

The marks he carves into the wall with his Galra fingers are never there when he wakes up again.

They thrust him into the pit beneath the stands. He can smell adrenaline in the air. Sweat beads on his skin. He feels weak, and new. He feels like he's only just woken for the first time, with only the memories of all his previous conversations with the witch... Haggar.

He grits his teeth and forces himself to dig for more. Voltron, the Black Lion, the castle, the Paladins. Allura and Coran.

_They are coming. They are coming for you. Just stay alive until then. You can figure everything else out later. All you have to do today is stay alive._

He draws a shaky breath and looks out into the arena. He can't see the cage on the other side. He doesn't know what beast they're going to force him to fight.

His limbs feel like lead as he walks out beneath the lights. The noise from the audience is deafening. He can hear the electric sizzle of debris burning up in the forcefield as the crowd tries to hurl things at him. He can hear Zarkon's name; he can hear them scorning him.

He can hear announcements echoing around the walls — _The Champion_ , they call him. The voice reverberates around him and turns him cold.

He sucks in a breath as the other gate opens.

_Focus._

The crowd roars. Out of the corner of his eye, Shiro can see the gathered audience rising and falling, cheering his opponent.

And then...

He grits his teeth, and takes a step back.

His reflection, his twin — another Shiro stands opposite him, looking taller and calm and prepared. 

"What…" Shiro stares at him, and the other Shiro looks back at him without shock or surprise.

The sharp zap of the forcefields falling across the exits reminds Shiro of what they're there to do.

"No," he says suddenly. "Not you, not… not you…"

There are no yellow eyes, or mocking smiles. Just barefaced determination gazing back at him. Suddenly Shiro doesn't think this is a magic act drawn up by the witch to taunt him. This isn't a mirror image in his mind.

This is a _person._

"You are new," the other Shiro says in a low voice. "Surely you can feel that?"

Shiro shakes his head slightly, refusing to take his eyes off him. "What do you mean?"

The other Shiro widens his eyes a little, urging him to understand. "Feel it," he says. "Understand. Please."

_You are new._

The sour taste is back in Shiro's mouth. The projector — tick-tick-tick, images flash past. Coran, Allura, Keith, Lance, Hunk, Pidge… The Black Lion. The lab.

_The subject is awake._

"I'll be quick," the other Shiro promises, and with a quick flick of his fingers his arm is alight, and he moves forward.

Shiro's survival instinct kicks in. He moves quickly, throwing himself out of harm's way.

The crowd laughs and cheers.

"Wait," he gasps, "we can't do this, I mean… Who are you, how did you get here?"

The other Shiro looks weary and disappointed. "I'm sorry," he says, "but the less we talk, the easier it is for both of us. Please understand."

Shiro ducks his next blow too, and manages to trip him. He scrambles to assert his position again, making sure he's not getting backed into a corner he can't fight his way out of. "My name is Shiro, and I'm the Paladin of the Black Lion," he says desperately. "I can help you; I just need to get back to my friends, and you can help me if —"

The other Shiro only shakes his head. He glances around at the crowd, who are all cheering, feet stomping in the stands to reverberate like drums of war.

"Only one of us is getting out of here," he says, sounding less patient as time goes on. "Don't think I don't know what she's whispered in your ear."

"Haggar?" Shiro asks warily.

The other Shiro rolls his shoulders and his neck, loosening up.

Shiro can feel cold terror crawling over his skin. "How many times have you done this?" he asks.

The familiar hum of his arm — but it's _not_ his arm — comes incredibly close as the other Shiro lunges for him again. He can feel the heat of it against his cheek, and he wrenches away and kicks out blindly, connecting hard with his opponent's knee.

The other Shiro lets out a growl of pain, but straightens up again, pacing back and forth to work the pain out. He shakes his legs and bounces on his feet. The crowd roars for him.

"How many times?" Shiro insists. "How many times have you been here?"

"More than you can count, impostor," the other Shiro says through gritted teeth. "And not one of you has succeeded in taking my place. I'm going home."

He lunges, feints a move to the right and Shiro ducks the wrong way, and they clash, the Galra technology in their arms shrieking at the contact, the shock of it driving deep into Shiro's shoulder and rattling his bones and his teeth.

He shouts in pain and falls back, and the crowd screams in delight. He scrambles to his feet and immediately has to block another advance. He tries to throw a punch but he's clumsy and bewildered; the other Shiro knocks him onto his back and the breath rushes out of him.

"Impostor," the other Shiro breathes, almost as a prayer — and Shiro is too afraid to think too much about what's going to happen next, but he knows only one Shiro is going to leave the arena, and he's not ready to give up yet.

He swings his arm up with as much force as he can, catching his opponent's throat in his strong fingers. They tussle and roll on the hard-packed floor of the arena.

"I don't want to," Shiro says desperately, panting. "Please don't make me —"

Burning pain against his side cuts him off. He screams and flings himself away, but dares not give himself time to recover. He staggers upright again, clutching his side and breathing heavily.

He desperately wants to see some sign of Galra magic in the other Shiro. The yellow eyes, the waver of sorcery in the air. But there's nothing so telling — the other man feels flesh-and-blood, his breath is hot and rapid, and Shiro can recognize too much of himself.

His mind whirls, frantically trying to think of a way out.

But they're in the Galra arena, and there's only one possible way to leave alive — you kill your opponent.

The witch's voice echoes low in Shiro's mind: _You are the one true Champion._

They circle one another. They are both desperate; Shiro can tell that much. "This is what they want," he says, pleading with his other self to see reason. "We don't have to do this. We can both find Voltron. We can both escape. We're stronger together."

The other Shiro shakes his head. "You all say that," he says, and then his arm lights up and comes for him.

It happens quickly — almost out of Shiro's own control. Luck, or misfortune, he isn't sure, but his Galra arm catches his opponent in a vital spot. There is no cry of pain or shock — he just falls, dead, and Shiro is left standing over him, watching the light fade out of his eyes. His stomach heaves and his knees tremble, and he turns away.

The crowd is insatiable, roaring for more, more, more. Shiro shrinks under the noise, feeling it bearing down on him.

The electric gates flicker open again, allowing him escape, and he does not look back.

* * *

Shiro wakes on the floor of a Galra cell, blood prickling in his numb limbs.

It takes a long time before he can bear to drag himself upright. He runs a hand through his hair and tries to convince himself that the arena was simply a nightmare.

He has nightmares about the arena often enough. It shouldn't be so hard to pretend this is another one.

He curls into the corner and he listens to the silence until finally it's broken by the footsteps of the guards coming to take him to the witch.

* * *

"I knew you would overcome." She is pleased. She keeps smiling at him and laughing quietly under her breath, muttering things that fade away beyond Shiro's ability to hear.

"You are the true Champion," she tells him.

"Who was he?" Shiro asks.

"Another creation of mine," she says. She paces back and forth in front of him, her robes dragging on the floor.

Shiro watches her, and wonders how fast he'd had to move in order to kill her.

"Why did you create him?" Shiro asks. The next question burns on the tip of his tongue: _Did you create me?_

The door opens — the guards coming to take him back to his cell already. Sometimes his conversations with her are less than a minute long. Sometimes he wonders why she bothers at all.

But his time with her always lingers in his mind, a memory sharper and more vivid than any other.

"There is no escape for you this time, Champion," she says. "You will grow stronger beneath my hands."

* * *

Shiro wakes on the floor of a Galra cell, blood prickling in his numb limbs.

He doesn't move. He waits for the familiar dizziness to slowly abate, but even once it's gone and the world has stopped drifting, he doesn't move.

He doesn't know how he knows, but he thinks today they'll take him back to the arena. He thinks they'll put him in front of another version of himself. Not the ghost imagery that magic can conjure up, but another man who will cry out in pain when struck, and bleed when he hits the ground.

"Please find me soon," he whispers against the hard floor. "Please find me."

He tries again to remember how he got from the Black Lion and back into the clutches of the Galra, but he can't. He feels like his memories have been carved out, leaving only emptiness.

He doesn't know what happened to Voltron, or to the other Paladins. He thinks Zarkon must have taken possession of the Black Lion, and his heart sinks as he realizes he never bonded with Black the way Zarkon had; he had never managed to break or overcome the previous Paladin's hold.

 _You're not worthy to be a Paladin of Voltron,_ a small voice says at the back of his mind. _They will be better off without you._

* * *

The witch calls for him first.

She stands in front of him and orders him to kneel, which he does. His knees thump against the floor. His shoulders are slumped.

He doesn't want to beg, but he doesn't want to go back into the arena, either.

"Please," he says, "don't make me —"

"Silence."

He watches the hem of her dark robes slide across the floor in front of him. He can't hear her footsteps.

"My Champion," she says quietly. Her voice is almost fond again. "You cannot afford to show reluctance."

"Make me fight something else," he says. "Don't make me fight another… another mirror." He doesn't know what to call the other Shiro. He's not a smoke-and-light creature drawn up by her fingers. He doesn't sizzle and glow with Quintessence. He has human expressions on his face.

"Think about all you will lose if you fail," she says softly. Her feet still; she stands in front of him, fingers half-curled and loose in the shadows of her sleeves. "Think of what damage will be done if you — my original, my truth — ceases to be."

Her words chill him. He looks up at her and sees her teeth glint. He sees the yellow glow of her eyes.

"The clones are convinced of their own truth," she whispers, leaning forward a little. "But you know, Champion. You remember."

He can smell Quintessence again — age and broken planets and stolen sunlight. He can feel it sinking into his lungs and he tries not to breathe it in. He closes his eyes and his memories light up again as though someone has flicked a switch.

Keith, Lance, Hunk, Pidge, Allura, Coran, Voltron.

Haggar.

The guards drag him backwards, sliding him across the floor, and he stares back at her until the door closes and separates them once more.

* * *

The crowd is just as bloodthirsty as he remembers. He can hear them stomping and clapping above his cell at the edge of the arena. When the forcefield drops, he walks forward, his heart pounding, a sick feeling in his stomach.

The other Shiro is already in the middle of the arena, looking tense. He rakes his eyes up and down Shiro's body, assessing him. He does not look surprised to see him.

"How many of these have they made you do?" Shiro asks him quietly.

"Enough to know there's only one way out," the other Shiro says. "I'm sorry."

"We don't have to —"

"Yes we do." The other Shiro's jaw tightens, and he lights up his arm with a quick flick of his fingers. "You must be one of the newer ones."

For a moment, panic overwhelms Shiro. _Is_ he one of the newer ones? To what extent are the Galra poking around in his head? Can he really trust his memories? How many Shiros has the witch made her promises to?

He stares back at the other Shiro and wonders how he can truly know which one of them is the true Black Paladin. He wonders if he is merely a bottled experiment conjured out of nowhere. He wonders if the other Shiro has been ordered to his knees, has had the same words whispered to him.  _The clones are convinced of their own truth._

He takes a step back, but the other Shiro follows him. The crowd heaves and roars, baying for blood.

"If we both refuse," Shiro says desperately. "If we both just…"

"It doesn't work," the other Shiro says. "Please — I know this is hard. It will be better if you don't fight. That's what they want you to do. I'll make sure it's fast."

"But I have to go home," Shiro says desperately.

The other Shiro looks weary, and sorry for him. "No," he says. " _I_ have to go home."

Horror creeps over Shiro's skin. The idea of someone else taking his place — the idea of a clone of himself infiltrating the Paladins of Voltron… he curls his Galra hand into a fist.

"You won't get near them," he says, gritting his teeth.

The expression on the other Shiro's face hardens. "They're not your friends to protect, impostor."

The crowd rolls like waves on the sea, laughing and screaming as they run at one another, arms lit up and glowing hot.

Shiro kicks his own feet forward and goes into a slide, but the other Shiro pulls the same move, and they both panic and scramble to deflect, slamming into one another in a messy tangle of limbs. Shiro's shoulder burns beneath the impostor's Galra hand and he screams and grabs him by the throat, throwing him off.

They both roll away from one another, panting desperately. Shiro can see his own finger marks around his clone's neck. He can already feel his own wound pulling tightly on his skin.

The other Shiro gives a breathless sort of laugh. "I can live with more scars, impostor," he says. "That will be the last time you get so lucky."

Shiro can feel himself getting angry beneath his own desperation and fear. "I'm no impostor," he says. "The witch has fed you lies."

The other Shiro shakes his head. "I don't blame you for this," he says. "But the only chance of escape I have is leaving this arena, and the only way I can leave the arena is if I kill you. The others are coming, and when they get here, I'm going to be the only Shiro they find."

This time, when he gets close enough, Shiro blocks an attack with his Galra arm and swings a hard punch with his left. His knuckles crack and he bites back his own cry of pain, but the other Shiro falls hard, dazed and drooling blood.

 _Finish it,_ a voice in Shiro's head demands. _If you let him up again it will only be harder. You have to finish it now._

He lights up his arm, and moves quickly.

* * *

Shiro wakes on the floor of a Galra cell, blood prickling in his numb limbs.

The burn on his shoulder doesn't hurt, but he can still feel it — his skin pulling tightly, new and raw as it tries to heal. The split skin on his knuckles is scabbed over. The joints and bones in his fingers feel okay. He flexes his hand slowly.

He rolls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling. The ship is silent. He can't even hear the engines throbbing.

 _You did the right thing_ , he tells himself. _When Keith and the others come for you, you need to be the only Shiro here._

When he closes his eyes a memory peeks into his brain — a split-second flash of something he knows he has seen before:

_Lights above the lab table, straps around his chest and his wrists and his thighs… dozens and dozens of glowing pods lining the walls, pink fluid and sleeping faces._

_The subject is awake._

_Haggar._

He sits up with a gasp. He tries to grasp hold of the vision in his mind, but it slips away again and now he can't be sure if it was a memory or a nightmare.

He leans against the wall in his cell, sweat gleaming on his skin.

He waits.

* * *

Shiro kneels in front of her.

She stands so close he could reach out and touch her robes with his fingers. He keeps his head lowered, bracing himself for the electric strike of Quintessence.

Her voice is gentle. "You continue to grow stronger, my Champion," she says. "You continue to make me proud."

He shifts uncomfortably. Surely her pride in him makes him some kind of monster.

"You continue to prove yourself as a great weapon," she whispers.

He can feel her words creeping on his skin like a cold breeze. "I don't want to be a weapon," he says. He stares down at the hard plates on his arm.

"You have no place in the universe but this one," she says. Her hand reaches for him, but she doesn't touch. Her fingers stroke the air and Shiro closes his eyes, but nothing comes.

He finds himself wishing that gentle stroke had been at the top of his head. He doesn't think for a moment that her affection extends beyond what she sees in her own experiments, and yet…

He rocks away from her slightly, ashamed to be craving a soft touch from her hand.

He can barely remember what kindness feels like.

* * *

Shiro wakes on the floor of a Galra cell, blood prickling in his numb limbs.

When his dizziness subsides, he starts counting push-ups.

One.

_Don't talk this time._

Ten.

_Do it quickly._

Thirty.

_It will be easier on the both of you._

Fifty.

_A blow to the head._

Sixty.

_Or a broken neck._

When they come for him, he follows quietly, muscles warm and ready. He paces his cell beneath the arena, listening to the crowd. Their thirst for watching him fight a replica of himself does not appear to have abated.

When the forcefield falls, he walks into the arena with determination.

The other Shiro holds a blade in his hand. He runs forward.

Shiro is unarmed. He flicks his fingers and his arm lights up, but he's not convinced it will be enough against whatever material the blade is made of. He doesn't want to block any swings with it — losing his arm won't mean he'll bleed out, but it will mean he'll lose the fight.

He ducks and dodges. The other Shiro is desperate, and Shiro can recognize fear in his eyes. He thinks this mirror is new, and somehow that makes it easier. A new body, a new brain — surely he will feel what Shiro felt upon first seeing himself.

"Listen to me," he says, raising his voice so the other Shiro can hear him over the gleeful crowd. "I know what they've told you. But fighting is only going to make this worse."

The other Shiro's eyes flash, and his jaw is set. "There will never come a day I don't fight for my life, impostor. There will never come a day I don't fight for _them._ "

With a sinking heart, Shiro realizes he's right. He's fighting someone not just with his body, but his memories. The Galra have reached inside his head and taken what they needed, and his cloned self stands opposite him, desperate to be reunited with a team he's never met, but can remember all the same.

 _Get the blade._ His own advice and previous determination comes back to him. _Do it quickly._

* * *

Shiro kneels on the floor, still trembling, still covered in the drying blood of his clone. There are glowing chains around his neck and his wrists, anchored to pegs set deep into the wall, but he doesn't think he could stand or move even if he wanted to.

He can still feel the weight of the blade in his hands.

There is a basin of warm, soapy water sitting in front of him, but he cannot reach it.

When the door opens, she is silhouetted in the light spilling from the corridor outside.

_Haggar._

The name burns against the inside of his skull and he doesn't know how it got there. But he's sure.

Shiro gazes back at her, trying not to show his fear or his sorrow. He thinks his tears have tracked through the dried blood on his face.

"Champion." She comes forward, her voice still gentle. A low chuckle emerges from beneath the hood. "My precious weapon… you continue to shine."

Her hand touches the top of his head, and Shiro flinches away. The chains rattle, and glow warm for a moment, as if in warning.

"Do you remember, Champion?" she asks softly, her fingers catching on the dried blood in his hair. "Do you remember what you were like when you first came to me, those years ago?"

Shiro grits his teeth and stares down at the hem of her robes. He wonders how much harm the glowing chains could do if he moved too quickly. He wonders again how quickly he'd have to move to kill her.

"You were weak," she whispers. "You begged to be returned to your precious planet. You begged for your life, and the lives of your friends."

Shiro closes his eyes. He wonders where the Holts are now. He hopes Pidge has found them.

He hopes she can find him, too.

"Those who doubted me will doubt no longer." Her other hand cups the back of Shiro's head. Her thin fingers stroke through his hair, sharp nails dragging lightly over his scalp. His skin crawls and he waits for the sensation of her driving her claws into him, but it doesn't come. "To watch you kill your own image so violently…" She laughs, and it echoes and bounces off the walls.

She touches the tracks his tears have made across his cheeks. "Although your soft heart proves harder to destroy," she says, "I have faith. There will come a day you feel no guilt." Her sharp fingertips draw lightly beneath his chin. "I will prove that humanity can be removed from any soul."

Shiro doesn't answer her. His mouth is dry. He watches her soak a sponge in the basin, and closes his eyes again when she touches it lightly to his face.

"Remember, human," she says, "that I am your only protector. That I am the reason you continue to live and breathe."

Her touch is gentle on his face. Blood-stained water drips from his chin. Her sleeves are soaked from the basin, and weigh heavy and wet from her thin arms.

"One day," he promises quietly, closing his eyes as she bathes the blood from his lashes, "I will kill you."

She laughs, the cold pad of her thumb brushing the length of his scarred nose. "Many have tried, Champion."

"You underestimate me," he says.

"It is true you surprise me," she says. She cups his jaw in her hand. "I have always found the unexpected and the unexplored far more fascinating to work with." She leans down and her eyes glow at him from within the shadow of her hood. "Remember that there is much more I can do to you yet."

Her words linger as she gently washes the blood from his skin.

Shiro doesn't lean into her touch, but he doesn't pull away, either.

* * *

Shiro wakes with a gasp, sweat drenching his clothes and soaking his hair. The darkness of his cell settles around him like a blanket, comforting him in warm relief.

_It was just a dream._

He sits up, but the nightmare clings fast, vivid in a way his other memories have failed to be for some time.

"It was just a dream," he whispers to himself, but he can't shake the idea that it was real, and the witch has since pulled him back into the lab and poked around inside his head again.

He closes his eyes, and the nightmare stands out to him like neon signs in the dark: The arena, the screaming crowd… his opponent turning to face him, fear bright in his eyes like tears.

Matt Holt.

Shiro wraps his arms around himself and anchors himself in the corner of his cell.

 _I won't fight Matt Holt_ , he tells himself. _She can talk about trying to destroy humanity all she likes_ _… But I'll die before I kill Matt Holt._

* * *

Shiro wakes on the floor of a Galra cell, blood prickling in his numb limbs.

As he waits out the dizziness, he quietly assesses his own body. This, he has found, is by far the best way to track the passing of time. How his wounds have healed; how many scars mark his skin.

The nightmare comes back to him slowly, fuzzily, and he finds himself worrying that it wasn't a dream at all, but a real memory now repressed by the Galra.

It lurks in his mind and in the pit of his stomach. Sooner or later they will drag him back to the arena, and as much as he fears having to watch the life fade from eyes identical to his own, it's no horror compared to the idea of having to fight against one of his friends.

He paces his cell, sweating and pale. His hands are shaking. How many clones of himself are there? Is he the only one cloned, or are there pods full of sleeping Matts and Sams? Will the Galra try to force the Holts to hurt him? Will the Holts even consider any version of himself to be an ally, or have they been poisoned to his image already?

He lets a scenario play out in his mind — the arena, and Matt, no longer afraid but determined. Matt, willing to fight him. "Shiro went home," he will say. "You're not Shiro. You're a clone." A blade swinging, hot blood soaking Shiro's shirt.

He retches in the corner of his cell, and curls himself into a ball. Matt's face stares back at him from the dark, and Shiro can't stop himself from trembling. 

He wants to go home.

* * *

She calls for him, and Shiro finds himself on his knees in front of her again, pleas and promises spilling from him uncontrollably. He knows her touch can be kind; he knows there is gentleness within her and he's desperate to appeal to whatever warmth she has left.

"Please," he begs, "I'll keep fighting clones if you want me to, I don't care, but don't make me fight anyone else. Don't make me fight my friends. I know you've put that nightmare in my head, I can't, I can't — "

She laughs in delight. "Champion," she says, "how many times must I tell you that mercy comes at a price?"

"I'll do whatever you want," Shiro gasps, "just don't put my friends in the arena."

She cups his face gently in her hands and smooths his tears away. "You must stop with this weakness," she says. "Showing such fear is beneath you now. It is pathetic."

"Please," he whispers. "I'll do anything. Don't put me in front of Matt. I won't hurt him. I won't." He sobs a breath, and tries to draw strength from his own conviction, but his hands are still shaking.

Her mouth twists with amusement. Her fingers comb gently through his hair. "You are defeating the clones too quickly," she says. "The crowds are unhappy. I must provide a new challenger."

His voice is low. "I'll make the fights last longer."

"And bore them with your circling and your hesitance?" she asks.

He blinks up at her helplessly.

"You must show strength," she says. "Prove to me that you can be what I see you to be. Make him suffer. Show the Empire your true brutality." Her hand is a heavy and comforting weight against the back of his head. Her robes are soft against his cheek, and wick his tears quickly from his skin. "Continue to make me proud, my pet, and fear will no longer plague you."

She pushes him away before the guards return.

* * *

In the shadows of the cell beneath the arena, Shiro empties his stomach. He can't remember eating, but he knows the Galra are keeping him sustained somehow. He watches the puddle of his sick soak into the packed dirt, and the forcefield falls.

He staggers to his feet, but doesn't move.

"Get out there, _Champion_ ," one of the guards mocks, hefting his gun in his hands. "Don't think that leaking all over yourself will excuse you from the fight."

Shiro walks forward numbly. He wonders if it would be better to just die — to let the clone win, and then it would all be over…

 _You have to be here when the others come looking for you_ , says the other voice inside his head. The voice of determination and hope and stability. The voice inside him that refuses to be wiped away by whatever the Galra are doing to him.

It's not Matt in the arena and, for that, Shiro feels a wave of gratitude.

The other Shiro takes a step back, looking surprised and horrified. "You," he breathes.

Shiro stands opposite him. The crowd is quiet, murmuring and watching closely, waiting for the first move.

"How many times have you been here?" Shiro asks.

The other Shiro shakes his head. "I… I fought here before, a long time ago, but… creatures. Not you." His eyes narrow. "You are the witch's creation."

Shiro feels a grim smile fleet across his face. "Yes," he says. "I am."

He flicks his fingers, and his arm lights up.

* * *

Haggar's fingertips graze slowly through Shiro's short hair. He keeps his eyes closed. He has discovered that a lot of things are easier when it's dark.

"I knew you could do it," she murmurs. "You continue to prove your strength."

"There's no strength in making someone else suffer," Shiro whispers. He feels empty and weightless. The guilt of what he's done has, so far, refused to settle upon his shoulders.

He hopes it's shock; his mind's way of protecting him from what has happened, but he's afraid instead that it's Haggar manipulating his own sense of right and wrong.

She gives a dark chuckle. "Why do you insist upon clinging to your weaknesses, Champion?"

"Humanity isn't weakness," he says. "You say you want to remove it, but it's not something you can simply carve out of someone."

"I have been told many times what I cannot do," Haggar says. "Nobody has been right about it yet." She leans back a little so he can see her smirk, her hood casting a shadow over her face. "You underestimate how much time I have had, and how much time I have yet, Champion. I have had you for the blink of an eye, and yet I see more and more of myself in you. It grows, and it will soon overcome you."

He hides his face in her cloak again, letting the darkness shield him. Thoughts of the arena bump and gather in the corner of his mind like bubbles. Dark blood, and the purple sparks shedding from the other Shiro's crushed arm. His own voice screaming at him to stop, _please_...

She strokes a hand along his tense shoulders. Slow, comforting movement. "You will soon forget what it is to be human. Just as your friends have forgotten you."

Her words crawl over him. He shies under her touch. "They haven't forgotten me," he says. Even beneath all of his fear and his grief, he's still sure of this. "They'll come for me."

"You failed them," she reminds him. "You are no longer valuable to them."

He snatches away from her at once, her words burning him. "We don't rank one another with _value_ ," he snarls.

She only appears to take delight in his anger. She stands over him, no longer touching him, but close enough she shrouds him in her shadow. "You overestimate your usefulness," she says. "You are only what I made you, nothing more."

He bunches his fists. 

She takes a step back, but continues to mock him. "You are a design," she says. "You are an interchangeable part in the universe; a shell filled with my own ideas and desires. You exist only as a reminder of futility. You fight your battles, Champion. You tell me where it has left you." She laughs, tipping her head back in delight, her shoulders shaking. "Paladin of Voltron!" she sneers. "You are left with nothing."

He keeps his fists closed to stop his fingers trembling. "They're coming for me," he says, teeth gritted. "They won't give up."

She hacks another laugh. "Nobody is coming for you," she says. "Your Paladins already believe you are safe." Her eyes glint with mad delight. "This is all you will ever have."

The guards come in to haul him away, and Shiro can feel the horror seizing his breath in his chest.

"You're a liar," he gasps back at her. "You want to break me, witch? Put yourself in the arena with me!" The door slides shut between them, but he keeps shouting at her even as the guards tighten their grip on him and warn him to be quiet.

"Fight me yourself!" he screams at the closed door. "Your clones are no match for me! I've killed every experiment you've put in front of me! Fight me yourself!"

They throw him into his cell and the door slides shut, enveloping him in darkness as complete as the silence of space. His heart hammers hard in his chest and he can hear his own breath, rapid and rough as he tries to quell the panic rising within him.

_Your Paladins already believe you are safe._

* * *

Shiro wakes on the floor of a Galra cell, blood prickling in his numb limbs.

Haggar's laughter still rings in his ears. He closes his eyes and burrows into himself, the small voice in the back of his head — the voice he hopes is still his own — praying desperately for rescue. 

He thinks about his friends. He thinks about the Castle of Lions. He thinks about Voltron. 

He thinks about a man with his own face amongst all of it, living his life, convinced of his own reality.

"I don't blame you," Shiro whispers. "I know it's not your fault."

* * *

Shiro wakes on the floor of a Galra cell, blood prickling in his numb limbs.

They drag him to the arena. His feet stumble; his legs feel weak. 

The crowd is electric — the violence of his last challenge has lingered, and the Galra are roaring for more. 

 _I'm going to let him kill me,_ Shiro thinks.  _Then it will be over._

But the other voice — the infuriating, logical, hopeful voice at the back of his mind takes over again, lifting his heart and making his body straighten and align, ready to fight. 

_She is lying. You are no clone. You are Takashi Shirogane and you are the Paladin of the Black Lion of Voltron. And you will go home._

The electric gate falls, and Shiro flicks his fingers and enters the arena.

* * *

She is delighted with him. And yet, she keeps her distance this time — she can see the taut tension in his shoulders, and the anger still simmering through him. 

"You continue to grow stronger," she says. "I see you making choices in the face of your own fear." Her smile mocks him. "Are you not afraid that you have killed your own truth? Do you not fear that you have guaranteed a universe in which only copies continue to exist?"

Shiro doesn't answer her, but it's all he can think about. That maybe he's not who he thinks he is. That maybe he's a ghost of something else that was once whole and complete in the universe, and now shadows are all that is left.

_Maybe I've already killed the real Shiro._

She softens her voice. It floats to him in the darkened room. "You are my favorite," she tells him. "There is nowhere in the universe you can go without me following."

He closes his eyes and lets his tears fall through his lashes. 

* * *

Shiro wakes on the floor of a Galra cell, blood prickling in his numb limbs.

The world spins in front of him, but it's not the silence he's accustomed to. He can hear a distant roar, and the perpetual blaring of an alarm.

 _It's too soon_ , he thinks. He can't move his arms or legs, and he's aching and cold. _I've woken too soon._

Running footsteps pass his cell door. He feels sick, and for a moment a memory comes to him for comfort — burying his face in the draping darkness of Haggar's robes, her touch a familiar gravity.

"I didn't mean to yell at you," he whispers to the empty room, suddenly terrified. "I didn't mean to be angry. I take it back, I'll do what you want… I'll be good; I'll be strong…"

Nobody comes to him. The alarm blares on, stretching throughout the ship. The roaring grows louder.

Shiro closes his eyes and it sounds like the crowd in the arena.

 _Maybe I'm in the arena and I'm dying_ , he thinks with stark clarity. _Maybe this is what dying is._

The ship rumbles and quakes. Metal squeals and bends.

Shiro slides across the floor as the world tips, and he reaches out and manages to brace himself before he hits anything too hard. His limbs prickle and spark, but he sits up. The world tilts again and the floor levels out.

More running footsteps outside his cell, and a reverberating blast from a weapon of some kind. Then, a familiar voice. "Quiznack. Pidge, I think we're lost."

Shiro's mouth is dry. He wants to call out, but he's too afraid. Too afraid of inflicting an impostor upon his friends — even if that impostor is himself.

His threats against Haggar linger in his mind. He wonders how she might see fit to punish him, and he thinks forcing him to fight his friends would be one of the first moves she makes.

She knows that's what he's most afraid of.

Another familiar voice. "I got it. I think." A grunt, and then his door is levered open, forced against whatever is trying to hold it shut. Hunk's broad silhouette steps into Shiro's cell. "Found him!" Hunk declares proudly.

Lance peers around Hunk's shoulder. "Shiro? Come on, we gotta move!"

Shiro shrinks back against the wall.

"Ah, darn it," Hunk mutters. "Guys, are we sure we've got it right this time?"

Shiro can hear Pidge's unintelligible reply through the comms.

"Okay," Hunk mutters. He comes closer and bends down. "Shiro," he says, "I know you're confused, but we have to get out of here, okay? I need you to come with us." He holds out one large hand, his eyes wide and hopeful.

"She wants me to fight you," Shiro says quietly. His mouth is dry. His limbs are still shaking. "You woke me too early, I can't… I…"

"Hunk!" Lance snaps.

"Okay," Hunk says, grasping Shiro's hand tightly. "We'll figure all of that out once we're back on the ship, okay buddy? All you gotta do is follow me."

"I'm not the right one," Shiro blurts, too afraid to move. "I'm — I'm wrong, I'm... I don't know..." He's suddenly terrified Hunk will lunge; that this is all a trick and he is a mirror, a ghost, a clone, and the real Hunk is somewhere far, far away and this is the arena and —

"We'll figure it out later," Hunk says, gently dragging Shiro up. He loops one arm around his waist and helps him walk out of the cell.

There are smoking and sparking sentry guards sprawled through the corridors. Hunk tramps over them and Shiro stumbles, breathing hard. He feels sick but he swallows it back, his heart slamming in his chest.

 _This is how she's going to kill me_ , he thinks in blind panic. _She's going to have my friends do it._

Shiro can hear Pidge through Hunk's comm, her voice tinny and small through the speakers. "Get to pod 1228," she says. "I'm going to guide it remotely, all you have to do is get inside."

"What about Red?" Lance asks.

Shiro's feet stumble over the body of another sentry. Lance darts ahead to the next corridor, his gun held ready in his hands.

Keith's voice comes through the comms. "Trust me," he says, "Red can take care of herself."

"Guys, the Galra guards have broken the barrier I put up in sector four," Pidge says. "Tell me you're almost at the escape pod."

"Yeah," Hunk pants. "Nearly there. Just need Allura to keep the witch busy a little longer. If she shows up again, we're done for."

Shiro's eyes widen. "Haggar," he breathes. "She'll come after me. She wants me to fight…"

"Easy buddy," Hunk says reassuringly, clapping his giant hand gently against Shiro's shoulder a couple of times. "We're almost there."

"No," Shiro gasps, planting his feet before they enter the pod. It's a trick; he knows it is. She is watching; she is laughing at him; she will kill him using Hunk's gentle hands.

He clenches his fists. He has to fight.

"Uh, Shiro," Lance says nervously.

Hunk wraps his arms around Shiro in a crushing bear-hug and lifts him, dragging him into the pod.  The door quietly slides shut.

"Pidge, go!" Lance shouts.

"You're in the pod?"

"Go now!"  

"Yes or no, Lance, are you in the pod?"

"Yes!" Lance and Hunk shout. The pod blasts forward, knocking Hunk, Lance and Shiro into the wall.

Shiro lets the world swim and darken, and the voices of the Paladins fade away.

* * *

Shiro wakes on the floor of the Castle of Lions, six worried faces peering down at him.

He gasps, flicks his fingers, and they all spring back in alarm.

"Whoa, Shiro, take it easy!" Lance says, and a chorus of similar exclamations ripple around the circle of people surrounding him.

"Shiro," Pidge says cautiously, "do you recognize us?"

His head is pounding. "Of course I do. I…" He trails off and looks around. There is no crowd. There is no arena.

"Can you… disarm your arm?" Pidge gives him a crooked little smile, and Lance snickers.

Shiro does as she asks, but he's still nervous. "Where's Haggar?" he asks quietly.

"The witch? Probably still recovering," Allura mutters, not able to keep the pride out of her voice. She gives Shiro a kind smile. "How are you feeling? Do you need a few ticks in one of the infirmary pods?"

"What happened?" Shiro asks. He shakily tries to get to his feet, but only succeeds when Hunk and Coran help him up.

"A lot has happened," Allura says.

"Let's just stick to the basics," Pidge suggests. "Shiro, we're not sure how much you know, but the Galra have been cloning you somehow. There are… there are a lot of Shiros."

"I know." He swallows and looks around at them all. "I haven't… The witch has been in my head, she's taken things out and I think she might have put things in, and I can't…"

"It's okay," Pidge says, shaking her head to silence him. "We know. We've rescued four of you already, but we think we've got it right this time."

Shiro's stomach twists. "Four?" Four rescued, but there were more waiting. He remembers the dream he had — the rows and rows of tubes, pink fluid and sleeping faces. He feels breathless. "We have to — we have to get them out, we can't leave them with the Galra, they..." He trails off, the fear and desperation on each face in the arena —  _his face_  — flashing through his mind again. 

_They all fight for their freedom; they all want to come home._

"Oh, it's on the agenda," Coran assures him. "But it's also a logistical nightmare, and it's going to take some time. We had to make sure we got you back first."

"The right Shiro," Allura clarifies. She glances at Pidge.

"I need to hook your arm up to my computer." Pidge watches him anxiously. "Is that okay?"

Shiro glances around at the others.

They all seem on edge. Keith's arms are folded but his knife is holstered close by, and Hunk still has his Paladin armor on.

Allura senses his hesitation. "Some of the previous rescues have reacted badly," she explains gently. "And we understand you must be nervous. But you must trust us. We won't hurt you."

"I promise it won't hurt," Pidge agrees. She takes his Galra hand in hers and tugs at it gently, and Shiro follows. The rest of the Paladins cluster around closely.

Shiro sits and watches as Pidge pries up a panel on his arm and starts hunting through the layers of cable and wiring bundled inside. He can feel her fingers shifting things, and she presses down on a loose fuse, clicking it back into place absentmindedly. 

"What are you doing?" he asks.

"Well, it took us a while to realize the first Shiro we found wasn't the Shiro we were originally looking for," Pidge admits.

The others all shift their weight, looking embarrassed. 

"I mean, he's a perfect clone, physically," Pidge says, still digging around in Shiro's arm. "And he _sounds_ like you, and he has a lot of your memories and your knowledge. Not to mention, he _completely_ believed he was the original Shiro."

"They all do," Shiro says quietly.

"Yeah," Keith answers. His voice is soft.

"Also he's kinda bossy like you," Lance says. "In a leader-y way, I mean." He darts a look at Allura, who looks exasperated.

"Anyway, I realized — sorry, did that pinch? I realized the easiest way for us to tell was to check the Galra tech in your arm."

Shiro watches as Pidge plugs something in, and her laptop lights up, numbers scrolling across the screen. The others all lean in eagerly.

"Well?" Allura asks.

Pidge smiles and points to a line of code on the screen. "There it is," she says. "Your serial number." Her eyes look a little misty. "The exact same serial number I saw when you helped me pull that data from the crashed ship on Arus. The first time we used your arm to gain access to Galra tech."

"So," Hunk says hesitantly, "this is the real Shiro?"

Shiro looks back at Pidge, hope swelling in his chest.

"Yes," Pidge says. "This is the Shiro we've been looking for."

"Oh man," Hunk says, his voice cracking. "Group hug!"

They hit Shiro from all sides, arms wrapped around him, all squeezing him tightly. Shiro buries his face against Allura's shoulder and grasps hold of Keith's jacket with his human fingers, clinging tightly.

"Welcome home, Shiro," Allura says fondly. "We've missed you."

* * *

Shiro's limbs are prickling, but it's not the same weakness and shakiness he's used to. There's pressure, and a stiffness that comes from lack of movement or circulation.

He blinks awake, and the gauzy haze of the drapes hanging over Allura's bed slowly comes into focus. She is sitting beside him, his head cradled against her hip.

"Are you comfortable?" she asks.

"Not really," he mutters. His mouth is dry again, and he blinks and looks down. Keith is sprawled out beside him, one long arm thrown out over Shiro's chest, fingers grasping Allura's hand. Lance has draped himself over Allura's legs to rest his head on Shiro's stomach.

Beside Allura is Coran, and Shiro thinks he can feel his gloved hand against the top of his head. Pidge has curled between Shiro's knees, her head resting against his thigh, and Hunk has wedged himself between Keith and Shiro's legs, snoring softly.

"Shall I wake everyone?" Allura asks.

"No," Shiro says quietly, "don't. This is the most comfortable discomfort I've had in a while."

Allura smiles at him. "There's no need for any discomfort, Shiro. If you're uncomfortable, we should move aside. Indeed, we ought to get back to work."

Hunk rolls over and moans a low _nooo_ as a Pavlovian sort of response to what Allura has said.

Keith kicks him, but doesn't open his eyes.

"Saving the universe is a full time job," Allura sighs. "Although I'll admit, it's a little easier having so many Shiros to help us. And easier again now that we have the real one."

Coran stretches, his spine cracking an alarming number of times. He mutters something in Altean and his mustache twitches. He blinks one eye open and looks down at Shiro. "Ah," he says, "you're awake. Excellent. Time to get to work."

"Dang it," Hunk mutters.

* * *

"Now that we're all pleasantly rested," Allura says, "it's time to get back to work. We must make contact with the rebel planets and ensure matters are progressing smoothly."

Shiro looks around the control room. It looks just as he remembers it. "Where are the other Shiros you rescued?" he asks.

"Three of them are on rebel planets, gathering intel and uniting outlying pockets of anti-Galra communities," Allura says. "They're leading the charge on the ground. The fourth is here with us."

Shiro's stomach lurches. "Here?"

"I'll go get him," Hunk says. "He's been pretty nervous about getting you back."

"He's been a valuable addition to the team," Allura says, seeing Shiro's hesitation. "Once we realized he wasn't _you_ , he was instrumental in your rescue."

"We call him Kuron," Pidge says. "He thinks the Galra clone program is called Operation Kuron. Does that sound familiar?"

"No," Shiro says. He feels sick. He watches the door nervously, waiting for Hunk to come back. Bracing for an attack.

"Hey, Shiro?" Pidge asks hesitantly. "You — you do know about the clones, right?"

"Yeah." Shiro's voice is grim.

"How much do you know, exactly?"

He glances around at the faces watching him. "They made me fight them," he says eventually. "In the arena."

"Yikes," Lance says.

Shiro doesn't go into further detail. He can see the implications of what he's said are already settling over everyone like a dark cloud. He doesn't want to worry them any further. All he wants is for things to go back to normal.

Hunk cheerfully announces Kuron's arrival, and Shiro, once again, is face to face with an image of himself.

His hair is a little longer, and styled slightly differently, but he looks comfortable and rested. There's no murderous glint in his eye, no sorrow for a violent act he's about to commit. Still, it takes all of Shiro's strength not to launch at him, using his arm as a blade, striking to kill.

He wonders if he'll ever be able to look at his own reflection again.

"Kuron piloted Yellow right into the side of Zarkon's ship, acting as a diversion while Hunk and Lance took Red to the other side in a covert operation to rescue you," Allura explains. "Without Kuron, our plan to get you out would have been much more difficult to pull off."

"You piloted one of the Lions?" Shiro asks, unable to hide his surprise.

"Well, Black still won't accept me," Kuron admits.

"Yeah, but Yellow knows what's up," Hunk interjects quickly. "He knows Kuron is a good guy."

Kuron gives Hunk a small smile.

"Anyway, Kuron smashed Yellow into Zarkon's ship so they'd be forced to deal with like, a catastrophic event, and me and Lance took Red — because Lance pilots Red now, and Keith pilots Black, oh, and _Allura_ has been piloting Blue… man so much has changed." Hunk's eyes are wide. "I mean it's unbelievable to have you back though. Maybe everything can finally go back to normal now."

"Yeah, Keith isn't as good a leader as you are," Lance says.

"Shut up," Keith says, but it's not with any ill feeling. He gives Shiro a small smile, still treating him carefully, like he might break. "He's right, though. We've needed you back, Shiro."

"I don't want to lead," Shiro says. He looks down at his hands, because he doesn't want to catch anyone's eye. "I'm no… I'm no good anymore. I'm just... no good. I can't do it."

"We don't have to make any decisions just now," Allura says. "Recovering from all of this is going to take some time for everyone. But we can't afford to be complacent. We will make contact with our teams on the ground and review our status, and from there we will know what needs to be done."

Everybody breaks — Allura and Coran to the communication dock, Pidge and Hunk towards the engine room. Lance and Keith start bickering, but it seems softer and with more laughter than Shiro remembers.

"Shiro," Kuron says softly, "I'm glad I finally get a chance to meet you. The — the real you. I know this must be strange."

"Not as strange as you might think," Shiro says. He watches his clone carefully, unable to shake the idea that this is all an elaborate hoax designed by Haggar. That she is watching somewhere, waiting for one of them to make the first move against the other. He clenches his Galra fist tightly, ready to jump into action if he needs to.

"I started out with your memories," Kuron says. "But there were other memories too. Seeing myself — seeing you — in a Galra lab. Being suspended in pink fluid. The witch whispering in my ear."

A chill runs down Shiro's spine.

"The longer I was here, the more I felt something was wrong," he says, looking uncomfortable. "So I removed myself from the Castle, and I went looking, and… there are more of us. A lot more. And when the Paladins came to find me…" He glances around the room at the rest of the team. "Well, we started forming rescue missions to try and find you. It was Pidge who confirmed that I don't belong here." His fingers trace absently over the inside of his Galra arm. "My serial number is wrong. Apparently a different arm has to be built for each clone."

Shiro has never felt so glad to have his Galra arm.

"You'd think they'd find a way to get around that," he says, stroking his fingers over his Galra wrist thoughtfully. "Though I guess with so many of us out there, it's a quick and easy way for the Galra guards to identify us, too."

"Did they make you fight?" Shiro asks quietly, watching his face.

"No." He looks at Shiro, and the sorrow in his eyes is almost enough for him to break — flick his fingers, one quick move and it would be over.

"They never stopped searching for you," Kuron says.

The urge to fight disappears almost as soon as it had come. All he feels now is defeated, and exhausted. He feels he should offer something comforting in return for the kindness he's receiving — that he should offer thanks, and gratitude for this man looking after his team. For ensuring that he himself was rescued.

"It's okay," Kuron says, apparently one or two thoughts ahead of him. He gives Shiro an easy smile. "It's going to take time."

"The one thing we don't have," Shiro says, glancing to Allura and Coran, who are busying opening comms lines to the rebel planets.

"Do you know what happened to Zarkon?" Kuron asks. "Is he alive?"

Shiro looks back at him in surprise. "Haggar says he is, but I don't know for sure. I thought he'd won the Black Lion from me."

Kuron shakes his head. "You were missing, but the Lion has always been here."

"I never spent any time with Zarkon." Shiro looks away. "Only her."

He's full of shame — he remembers leaning into her gentle touches; remembers begging and pleading with her. Remembers hiding his face in her robes for comfort.

"Her plan backfired, anyway," Kuron says. He folds his arms and watches Coran and Allura drawing up projections for the rebel teams. "All she did was give the universe more Shiros."

Shiro runs a hand through his hair tiredly. "I'm not sure that's a point weighed in our favor." 

"So far it's proved valuable," Kuron says. "Though I wouldn't want to... ring my own bell, as Coran says."

Shiro glances at Kuron, and finds it easy to give him a small smile.

"If you need anything, just ask," Kuron says, making movements to walk away.

Shiro reaches out and clasps his arm gently. "How do I know I'm the real Shiro?"

Kuron glances down at his outstretched arm, confused. "Your serial number..."

"No," Shiro whispers. "The Shiro that left Earth. How do I know... that she didn't clone me after I was first captured... sent me back to Earth instead of the real Shiro? I'm the only Shiro that the team knows, but am I the original? Am I the real Shiro, or am I just a clone the team recognizes?" He blinks back tears, looking at Kuron desperately, aching for truth.

Kuron considers his answer for a moment. "I can remember crashing back on Earth," he says. "They gave me that memory. I can remember finding the Blue Lion. But when Keith and the others talk about the Garrison... it doesn't feel right to me. I don't think I have all of it. Just flashes, like... images, but not proper memories. There's nothing substantial before my — your — time with the Galra."

Shiro drops his hold. He thinks for a moment, forces himself to remember the Garrison. The dehydrated food and the training drills and the simulation exercises. The shadows cast by the lamp in his dorm room, the text books piled next to his bed, Keith leaning in to whisper in his ear during class. 

"I think I remember," he says, hoping it's the truth. Hoping it's not a synthetic image plastered over a blank space in his head by Haggar.

Kuron pats his shoulder gently, and Shiro glimpses his old self in his face — confident, understanding, patient. "It gets easier," Kuron says. "Every day, it gets a little easier. Don't be too hard on yourself. Everything else will follow."

* * *

The room is dark, and quiet. Hunk is snoring softly.

"I _really_ like Allura's bed," Lance says sleepily, pulling his mask over his eyes. "It's a lot softer than mine."

"I hadn't considered this a permanent invitation," Allura says, but her voice softens. "I do like the company, though."

Kuron pats the clamp around Shiro's Galra arm. "That's not too tight?"

"It's fine," Shiro says. He feels exhausted. His head is in Keith's lap; Pidge is already curled into his left side.

"Are you sure it's necessary?" Kuron asks, clearly worried about the discomfort.

"I don't want to come out of a nightmare and accidentally hurt one of you," Shiro says. "We can take it off in the morning, but for now it's safer to have it on while I'm asleep."

"Mph," Hunk says. "Talking. No."

"Get some rest," Keith says. "Tomorrow is going to be a long day." His fingers comb gently through Shiro's hair — softer and more gentle than Haggar ever was. Shiro closes his eyes.

"We know Zarkon has a son now," Pidge says sleepily. "I wonder who Lotor's mother is?"

"Haggar," Shiro says quietly. "I bet she conjured him up as an experiment. I bet he was her first creation."

"Aw, does that mean there's gonna be more than one Lotor?" Lance asks. "What if there are a billion Lotor clones?"

"It doesn't matter where he came from," Keith says. "All that matters is we destroy him. If we take Lotor out, the Galra Empire will fall. Being cooked up in a lab doesn't mean you're invincible… No offense, Kuron."

"None taken," Kuron replies easily. He bunks down beside Lance.

"Talking," Hunk groans. "No more."

" _Okay_ , Hunk," Allura says. "Although if you're that intent on silence, perhaps it would be better if you went back to your _own_ quarters."

"Aw," Hunk says in dismay. "I don't want to be left out."

"Then shut up!" Lance says.

"Enough," Shiro says tiredly.

"Ohh," Lance says, hooking his thumb under his mask and raising it enough to look at Shiro, impressed. "Do I hear our fearless leader getting a little bossy again?"

"No." Shiro settles his head back in Keith's lap and closes his eyes. "But we all need to get some rest if we're going to save the universe tomorrow."

"Pfft," Lance scoffs. "Do you know how easy it's going to be now that we have _five_ Shiros? That's a whole Voltron pilot team! The universe is going to be fine. _Everything_ is going to be fine."

* * *

Shiro stands alone on one of the observation decks. It's almost silent — just the whisper of the oxygen cycle and the low humming of the engines deep inside the ship. The others are sleeping, or eating, or planning strategy. They are mindful of his need to untangle himself from them and breathe alone for a moment.

He's not sure where Coran and Allura have hidden them this time — the view out the window is empty. A long, lonely stretch of unbroken darkness.

He can remember similar views on the journey to Kerberos. He can remember marveling at it with Sam.

"We're so small," Sam had said once, gazing out into the emptiness. "In the grand scheme of it all, we're not even dust, and yet look what we're about to do. Look at what we can achieve."

Shiro's chest aches as he remembers the undying pride Sam had in their mission. The excitement he'd felt when he'd looked out into the darkness. He'd seen possibility there.

Shiro stares out the window in the Castle of Lions and thinks how small the universe feels to him now. That the empty stretches between the stars aren't grand enough to keep him hidden; to keep him safe.

 _You are my favorite_ , she had said to him. _There is nowhere in the universe you can go without me following._

* * *

 


End file.
